


A Little Old-Fashioned of Me

by Tsuukai



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Florist & Tattooist, Multi, The Author Regrets Everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 18:12:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3987832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsuukai/pseuds/Tsuukai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <strong>It felt suspiciously like a dance, and then again, he might have been imagining it, but then again, he has been imagining a lot of things lately, so many it was not a dance. Just like it was not the proclamations of ardour that had him vaulting across the street, nor was it the sweet smelling flora half-eaten and half-trampled on the floor of the flower shop.</strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>“Sorry,” the other says with cheeks—definitely and not a figment of his (sometimes wild) imagination—heated, exhalations misting visibly, “It’s a little old-fashioned of me...”</strong>
  </p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Old-Fashioned of Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seafoamish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seafoamish/gifts).



* * *

  

**Author’s Note(s) and Warning(s):**  First and foremost, thanks to Kyunyo's artwork which spurred so many thoughts, HCs, and requests for this AU!

I tried to not copy much T___T, but my imagination for tattoo work ends there; in my imagination. No words for those images, I tell you.

Also...there is **no excuse** for the utter nonsense this is.

Seriously.

I apologise for making you read this and thinking it should be a good one, but find out it is not. o(╥﹏╥)o

Also, if you find any mistakes (which I'm sure you will see _a lot_ of), feel free to drop me a line!

[And I apologise for the awkwardness the endnotes' numbering does while reading--writing on my phone made things a little too hard when it came to editing.]

 

**A dedication to (** _or was it pitifully demanded of by_ **) seafoamish.**

~~Because only you manage to make me fuss so much about Aomine like this.~~

~~(IT TOOK ME LONGER THAN IT SHOULD HAVE!!!!! I WROTE THREE DIFFERENT STORIES BEFORE _THIS_ CAME ALONG!!!!!!!!)~~.

I honestly hope you enjoy this. Heck, I hope _someone_ enjoys this.

* * *

 

When Daiki makes the final move to Azabu-Jūban, he does it all by himself. He has four small moving boxes packed, all the ‘ _Fragile This side UP’_ signs pointing downwards, comes with him easily on a hand-trolley that he takes on a late morning train. The train has a countable number of people dispersed in the carriage he rolls his boxes into, locking the trolley near the flexi glass pane attached to a row of seats near an exit, and he slides carefully beside it. It is a short ride to Azabu-Jūban Station, and from there, he knows it will take a good fifteen to twenty minutes to get to his new place because of the trolley, but nothing of the length of time annoys him.

Aomine Daiki is done being annoyed with the wait.

He is ready for a new chapter in his life, even if he has to do it alone. Stubborn and self-sufficient, is what he thinks of himself, the midday sun rising to its peak, blinding him as he glances out on the passing buildings of Tokyo.

By the time he arrives at his location, a small, narrow quaint backstreet lined with various eateries and speciality shops, Daiki grunts with effort as he rolls his moving boxes to a stop, using one hand to wipe away the sweat beading down the edge of his hairline despite the cold weather. According to the trusty metrological station of Tokyo, Spring was supposed to be around the corner—for the past two weeks. When the cold front was still pressing the city, Daiki had no choice but plan for his move abruptly, wanting to make use of the late start of Spring as the all-important opening of his shop.

Of his own flower shop.

Some part of Daiki still chuckles at the hilarity of seeing himself surrounded by blooms that as a growing child, he had terrorized with tugging them out of the soil in the neighbourhood park trenches; plucked out petals in alternating ‘ _She likes me, she hates me’_ rituals; brandished once for Mother’s Day when he and said parent had gotten into a fight the previous day; trashed the bouquet given to him for his middle school graduation… Daiki knows of too many occasions where he has been ungrateful to the same flora he has spent the past five years cultivating with tender fingers.

In fact, apparently knowing the kind of person he was, made many of his friends scoff at his about-turn. Not that Daiki blamed them—if he was still laughing at himself, he could not truthfully fault the others for doing so out loud, but it did not mean he would like being laughed at—nevertheless he expected friends and family to come around eventually.

‘Eventually’ never came in the end and Daiki was left finding his own place, his niche, far away from familiarity and from the place he had once called home, to the hustle-bustle of one of Tokyo’s effluent areas, Azabu-Jūban. If it had not been for his beloved grandparents’ inheritance money, Daiki would not be able to afford the place himself.

Daiki made to move then, hoping to settle into his apartment by the next two days (not that it would be difficult, seeing his four boxes), and almost had a heart attack when he heard a soft-toned, “Aomine-kun?” sound from beside him.

“Geh!” He choked on spit, embarrassingly enough, and turning, saw a face he thought he had forgotten. “T-Tetsu?!”

“It is Aomine-kun,” A smile, small that it was, stretched sweetly on the short pale man with powder blue hair and eyes. “It’s been a long time.”

Daiki laughed, joyed and surprised, letting go of his trolley to divert all his attention to the new arrival. He thumped the back of the now equally surprised (and definitely annoyed at the amount of force he had used for the back _pats_ ), grinning widely. “Man, look at you! You haven’t changed at all, Tetsu!”

Kuroko Tetsuya, a classmate from middle school, smiled through the pain. “Yes, you haven’t changed one bit either, Aomine-kun.”

“So, you work around here?” Daiki asked, looking around. For mid-afternoon, the street they were on was surprisingly empty. He frowned, thinking about how his clientele would suffer if he could not advertise his flower shop well. Earlier on, when deciding where to buy and rent space, Daiki had assumed the spot he chose was close to Roppongi, and he would be able to somehow get contracts with ritzy businesses, though considering he had virtually done most of the planning himself, he was now feeling a little out of depth.

Tetsuya shook his head. “No, I was visiting a friend. He’s sick at the moment, and he’s pretty bad with resting when he has to.” The grim look of determination felt both old and new, a pleasant reminder of the past. “I saw you on the way home.”

Daiki blinked. “Home?”

At this, Tetsuya looked a bit embarrassed, and it was something Daiki picked on only because he knew to look for it; Tetsuya’s blank, mostly expressionless face was otherwise hard to figure out. “Yes, it appears to be quite difficult to keep a job when your employer forgets you exist, thinks you are on leave without notice, or calls the police on you because they think you’re a thief, wonders why there’s a name on a locker or a cheque he has to—”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” Daiki grimaced, turning his face away. Clearly it was a sore subject.

“Are you moving, Aomine-kun?” Blue eyes blinked up at him eerily. “Do you need any help?”

“Ah, no,” Daiki started, feeling embarrassed for no specific reason than what questions may follow during the conversation. It has been almost a decade since he has last seen Tetsuya, and he almost wonders what would be the other male’s reaction to him being a florist.

Tetsuya, reading the situation wrongly, takes a step back. “Oh, I apologise for being so forward.” While Daiki flounders at the change, Tetsuya bows his head lightly, “I’ll be taking my leave then; it was nice seeing you again, Aomine-kun. Stay well.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Daiki grabbed hold of the departing man’s shoulder. “What just happened here?”

“Eh?” Tetsuya honestly looked just as confused. “Wasn’t I interrupting you?”

“No!” Daiki snapped. “You really are the same old Tetsu… Listen.” He pursed his lips. “I’m staying on top of this shop,” he jerks his thumb at the unoccupied, newly painted floristry that had yet to bare its name to the world. “It’s my shop.”

“Oh,” Tetsuya’s eyes were wide. “That’s awesome, Aomine-kun.”

“It is,” he agreed, pride evident to anyone hearing, not understanding the trials he underwent to achieve what could only be called the start of a dream for Daiki, “but it looks like I might have used up all of my brain capacity into just getting to where I am.” Daiki breathes in slowly, the cold air in his lungs acts in clearing away the haziness in his head of the potential leap of faith decision he is making now. “Why don’t you follow me, and we can talk more? I can help you out until you find something else, if you want… I don’t know, Tetsu, it’s up to you.”

Daiki does not know what makes Tetsuya look at him in awe, but it feels good, and makes the day seem brighter than it had started out to be, the ostensibly unremitting Winter but an afterthought to the florist.

 

* * *

 

The first floral shipment arrives on time for the first blooms of Spring to touch the cherry blossoms littering the parks around the city, and when he spies the tiny buds on the trees during his morning jog, Daiki runs all the way back to his place to pull out the floral arrangement scrap books he had stored for just this occasion. On the way back, the ‘Closed’ sign is still firmly stuck on the steel shutters on the opposite shop, but he pays no mind at the fact that he has yet to see the owner or business of the shop named Fugō[i]. Daiki finds it funny that his own shop is named Kigō[ii].

He tumbles downstairs, spreading the books on the outside work table, eyes darting from one arrangement to another, time passing so quickly that the rattling of the steel shutters jerked him out of his trance.

Daiki blinked, glancing at the clock high up on the wall above the counter, and swore.

“Tetsu! I’m sorry, hold on a sec!” He rushed to open the shop, allowing his friend and employee inside. “Sorry, man, was engrossed in something.”

Tetsuya threw a look at the scrap books. He started to remove the light scarf he had worn, draping it along his arm, unbutton his Spring jacket. “Studying?”

Daiki snickered. “Nope! This is for the display case actually,” Daiki pranced about the shop, a little gleeful he had someone he could share his ideas about floral arrangements—about flowers in general—that he could not reign in his emotions.

Tetsuya, in turn, smiled, more amused than he thought he would be. “I’d like to see that, if it’s alright, Aomine-kun,” Daiki pulled out the chair at the desk, miming a gentleman’s bow and usher, and Tetsuya sat gingerly waiting for the spiel he is sure Daiki will indulge in. He wondered at which point he should remind the other that the shop had yet to be opened for the day.

 

* * *

 

Hanami[iii] was an occasion that made Daiki sadder than it did most people in Japan. Sure, it was a beautiful occasion, and much merriment took place between family, friends, colleagues…lovers, but for Daiki, it meant Spring was fleeting. Life that was so vibrant during the fresh season was falling to the ground to be stomped on and left to become debris which was swept away into compost heaps. He knew romanticizing the idea was something he should not do as a florist, but watching others ‘ohh’ and ‘ahhh’ at the swirling blossoms made his heart lurch in his chest, wanting to find the pause button and vindictively jab it until the motion stopped.

So he arrives late to the spot chosen by Tetsuya’s friends in the park, bearing _sakura_ _wine_ from last year’s blooms in wine bags, breathing in the deep smell and the frisk chill the day had brought along. There are faces he recognises from middle school, surprised that Tetsuya kept in touch with them, and as he is seated and served Kyoto style _sakuramochi[iv]_ , he chats and catches up with them all. Likewise, they are surprised with finding out that Daiki is a florist, has been a florist for so many years, and even has his own shop. Daiki still reels at the words ‘his own shop’, but keeps the giddy joy to himself, sipping _sakura wine_ in plastic goblets.

“Aomine-kun,” someone calls, “which would you prefer? This bento, or this one?”

Daiki glances over, seeing two very extravagant bentos held up for him to choose from, and is impressed. “In ¥1600 we got those too? How much were they going for?”

“No, those were made by a friend of ours,” Tetsuya said next to him, shocking him enough to spill the wine on his shirt. Daiki glared at the sure-to-stain spill. “He’s pretty good at this, isn’t he?”

“Yea, yea,” Daiki waved him off. “Give me whichever.”

It is not until he takes a stab of the bento that Daiki’s mood changes. The burst of flavour in each morsel of food is undeniable. “This friend of yours,” he starts around the bite-sized teriyaki drizzled fried chicken, “what chef is he?”

Tetsuya calmly responds after jabbing him in the side for speaking with his mouth full, “Chef? Kagami-kun is a tattooist.”

 

* * *

 

"I hope you're not kidding, Satsuki," were the words that greeted a woman with mauvelous[v] coloured hair as she climbed down the stepladder, dusting her palms against each other. Curious eyes looked up at the scary scowl of her best friend-cum-flowershop-owner she had been “helping” around for the past few weeks.

"Hmm?" The woman innocently blinked large eyes in the other’s direction. "What do you mean, Dai-chan?"

Aomine "Dai-chan" Daiki had the most disgusted incredulous look on his face, hoping against hope that Momoi Satsuki would get what his look meant without him needing to verbatim its meaning. When she did nothing but bat those pretty mascara-laden eyelashes at him, he sighed heavily. "Satsuki...I don't really mind the display if you let me do it instead...but anyone passing by will have a heart attack and I'll be making a lifetime of bouquets for their funeral and death anniversaries. For free.” He paused just enough to increase his glare level to demand, “What's the point of the display _if it’s not making me any money_?!"

Satsuki pouted as though it would change his mind. He ignored her, turning to glance outside at the late morning passers-by. Inside of the quaint flower shop Daiki owned, what could only be the dissonance of the concrete jungle was muted by the display glass through which Daiki cowered away from. Said display would have been aesthetically pleasing if only the stems of the flora used were not screaming in silent torture, and the colourful petals of various shapes and sizes were not littering the raised floor in a dying message schema than what was to be artistic flair.

Daiki sighed again, raising his free hand to his forehead in an unconscious pose of theatrics. “Satsuki, I don't have the time today to clean this up...”

Satsuki pouted. Hands on her hips, she scolded, "Then why don't you actually hire someone to do this for you? Here I am, giving up my paid vacation to help you settle in this new role you selfishly decided to take on!"

Daiki pretended he was not hurt by the accusations his best friend was laying thick on him, knowing that what she said was true. He turned away, hoping that his reflection did not expose him. He tried busying his hands with empty pots and halfway emptied bags of soil, mumbling ideas of which indoor houseplant to put in which pot. Satsuki, though, knew the effects of her words, and came up to his side and gripped the edge of his dirty work t-shirt.

A tug. "Hey..." Another tug. "Hey, Dai-chan," Satsuki looked up at him with pleading eyes. "Don't kill yourself this time, okay?" Daiki looked on in pain, wanting to physically run away from the over-observant woman. "This time, we're going to be better, and we're going to screen all these idiots who think they know better than you, okay?" She grinned, her eyelids closing over the shimmer of tears waiting to spill out. "I'm going to be there for you this time, Dai-chan!"

Daiki chuckled, ducking his head, and Satsuki reached over to pay his head. “Yoshi, yoshi.[vi]”

"I'm still going to have to redo the display, Satsuki..."

"Mou! Dai-chan!!" The stomping of feet accompanied his raucous laughter.

* * *

 

Daiki spent what could have been the better part of his life fixing the atrocious flower arrangements in his little flower shop's display. While mentally sitting back to admire the sight, he had to admit that Satsuki's design was well thought out, incorporating the season’s more popular choices in the background with dashes of the not-so-well-known Summer blooms. Previously, the two of them had been brainstorming a mascot for the little floristry to use in the display’s advertising section, but none had been noteworthy and was shelved for a time when Daiki was satisfied he would not hurl a brick at his own store from seeing some overly-cute icon staring at him with beady eyes.

It is in this mind-set that allows for the first time Daiki, pricking himself on the strip of thorns that Satsuki forgot to strip off on the large bloomed white roses, sees the redhead. As his blood stains the pure petals with his life source, he chalks up his light-headedness to his blood loss. Daiki successfully dissuades himself as he curses and sucks the digits oozing the life liquid with his mouth, shakily scampering down the stepladder.

He does not see the redhead glance across the street at his less than stellar disappearance into the shop proper, or the chuckles let out with a small shake of his head.

Knowing Daiki, he would have scowled back in response.

 

* * *

 

The second time—or it might have been the fifth one—the redhead he has no name to pin on (“Its Kagami Taiga, Dai-chan, go and say hi if you're so bothered about it.”), is stalking the front space of his own tattoo parlour amicably, lighting up  a cigarette. The motion is so smooth, Daiki’s mouth dries up staring, eyes tracing the bulked up arms—one covered in an ink sleeve of an assortment of caricatures he cannot recognise, and as the lingering Spring breeze turns the long red strands of the man’s hair upwards, he can see lettering running across the top of his nape. There is an instant unpalatable tang filling his mouth; even as he aimlessly tries to look for his coffee mug to wash down the mothball taste, he does not recognise the emotion.

At least, not until later, as he sits in his private workstation near the coolers at the back of his flower shop that, stilling the breath in his lungs, Daiki realises he is annoyed by the clawing curiosity of what the lettering said.

Daiki bleeds again, the red of his life force spilling silently on the white sheets of his work surface, watching the gradient lose the vibrant colour it was originally. The culprit, an innocuous shiny strip of ribbon curled awkwardly on the table to his right, stared at him, almost taunting. Each curl reminded him of the cursive loops of the lettering, and each twirl reminded he did not know which word sported the cursive writing. He ponders and ponders, automatically removing his latex gloves, reaching for the sanitary wipes, before he scowls and shakes his head viciously.

As his thoughts clear, Daiki forces himself to not think of Kagami Taiga, the lone tattoo resident of their quaint and narrow Azabu-jūban street[vii].

 

* * *

 

The calendar marks it to be a Wednesday on which the bountiful weather woman on TV 7 cheerfully embellishes the sunny day ahead that Daiki finds himself frowning at the pallid reflection of his face on the flower shop’s main door. His hand hovers over the handle, mind knowing he has to do something for him to get anywhere at this point, but his body refuses to move. His breathing has increased, heart thudding what feels like a mile a minute on a marathon he does not remember signing himself up for, and the grinning visage of the redhead from across the street. He blames the other store owner completely—weeks ago, before even starting to fill up the flower shop, he had been a man on a mission to redeem himself, though now he is but a pale afterimage of himself. Kagami Taiga was to blame for the sunny disposition of his last two customers; was to blame for the disappearance of his flatmate before rent day; was to blame for the unwanted presence of the little brats running down their street at opening time, subsequently making Daiki drop his beloved lucky potted fern called Furry Beeswax; was to blame for the sudden symptom of nervousness when around 6’3” redheads; and basically, Kagami Taiga was just _to blame_. Beyond the point of not having enough brain space to list the faults of the day versus the faults from the beginning of his tenure of his floristry, Daiki was facing his biggest dilemma: the first greeting.

In the span of the few seconds it took to list said faults, Daiki was already standing outside his shop under the cool awning. He gaped in confusion as his whole body twitched, arms hanging stiffly idle at his sides, fingers curling at his thighs searching for something _anything_ to occupy them so that they at least appeared less idiotic than their owner. Daiki wept inside, however, when Kagami Taiga glanced up at him from where he was slightly bent over, sweeping the entrance of his parlour, the bamboo bucket of water to cool his entrance* sitting ready at the edge of his door. The quirk of the redhead’s lip into a passable facsimile of a polite smile made Daiki teeter on his heels, snapping his eyes left and right; all possible exits looked unattainable and too far and too open for his comfort; the redhead would instantly deem him weird.

And weird was not what Daiki wanted to be known for, irrationally.

“Yo,” the informal greeting throws Daiki for a loop—more because he does not expect it—and he snaps his neck to the redhead. Said man straightens his back, that facsimile quirked-mouth twitching uncomfortably on a rather attractive jaw, eyes crinkling at the outer corners but not closing completely, faces Daiki as he supports some of his weight on the long broom handle. The other does not even get a chance to continue speaking before Daiki loses what little control he had left on his body.

“Don’t you be so casual with me.”

Like his mouth.

Appalled at his inability to not lose his shit altogether, Daiki turns tail and rigidly marches back into the cool flower shop, forgetting the reason he had even left its safe premises.

“You sure you okay, Boss?” Tetsuya asks of him, not even seeming a bit concerned that Daiki was at the brink of social suicide and all that was left of the ledge was the mere thought that he passed it miles back.

“Yea,” he croaked, using the crook of his elbow to cover his eyes. “Just peachy.”

“Thought so.”

 

* * *

 

If he remembered that it was around this time that elementary schools let out their captives, Daiki did not show it. In fact, his usual grandstanding outside the shop to keep away the slimy curious things from tripping over their own feet and thin air, crashing into Furry Beeswax and many of his outdoor plants and flowers, was missing that Thursday. The mothers of those elementary-goers who had the misfortune to meet Aomine Daiki’s patented “I will fucking kill you if you breathe in my babies’ direction” glare for the umpteenth time were looking over their shoulders as they passed the quaint flower shop.

(And if Daiki had noticed this, he would have gleefully marked his large Mai-chan calendar with a red Sharpie, and then made sure not to appear on Friday just to keep those snivelling organisms and their primary bodies on their toes.)

Nevertheless, it was such that Daiki could not enjoy the little things of life because he was moaning about the little things he failed to do in his own.

Like apologising for the previous day’s appalling failed greeting, if one could even call it that.

Tetsuya kept nudging him in reminder, but every time the elbow came near his ribs and making the bruise darker, Daiki clicked his tongue, glowered and shrugged off angrily.

“You’re not making things any better than they could be, you know?” Tetsuya decided to impart enlightened words.

Daiki scowled; he had an icepack held to his ribs from all of Tetsuya’s nudging.

“Ah, maybe because nothing is currently _good_ that you don’t care about making anything _better_? Is that it?” Tetsuya nodded to himself. “Not that I see the logic in that, but so profound of you, Aomine-kun.”

Daiki wanted to know where Tetsuya learned how to both compliment and insult people in the same sentence—it was a nice skill to have.

“It’s not like I don’t want things to be better,” Daiki muttered into his side, hiding his face from Tetsuya in the guise of glancing at the extent of his bruised ribs. “No matter what I try, it seems to fail.”

“Hmm,” Tetsuya is looking outside the display window, thoughtful. Or negligent to his employer’s plight, Daiki cannot tell.

Then, as though it was something Daiki would never think of, Tetsuya patted the basket he was filling with foam. “Why don’t you send him a bouquet of flowers?”

“For what?” Is Daiki’s first reaction, not concentrating.

“You know, to greet him?”

It really was something Daiki did not think of.

 

* * *

 

That same week’s Friday, Daiki wakes up with the thought of, “Maybe I don’t understand him well enough, that’s why I’m so bothered about him.” He shakes off any remaining sleep lethargically, slouching all the way to the bathroom, staring at his bleak reflection mutely. “Maybe I’ll get over this phase if I knew what he was all about,” his thoughts endlessly continues even as he brushes his teeth, first without toothpaste, and then forgetting to zip up his pants when he comes down, only for a cheeky elementary school-goer to point and laugh at him later in the morning.

Daiki snaps his teeth at the tyke, and goes on his business, pulling his zip up in the process as though he fully intended for it to happen.

He misses Kagami exiting from the side of his parlour, dressed in sweats, and so has a heart attack when the redhead breezes past him in a light jog. Daiki’s eyes follow him.

“Maybe…”

And thus begins Daiki’s eye-stalking.

 

* * *

 

Daiki spends a better part of performing first-aid on himself, right in the middle of his deserted flower shop, the cloying mixture of flowers and antiseptic filling his nasal cavity as he pants, the same smell rushing into his oral cavity as expletives fill the void left behind.

Kagami Taiga is hanging outside again, smoking again, but this time the redhead is not alone. The face of his visitor is jovial and someone he does not recognise. Daiki can point out little quirks of so many passers-by but this dark haired male, grinning-smirking mouth, comparatively short, is commenting and cracking jokes and making Kagami Taiga’s chuckles sound louder than it usually does in the narrow street they share. Daiki bites his lips to stop the clicking of his tongue to be heard though it appears to be a pointless deed; Satsuki’s head pops out from the backroom, immediately snaps her neck to stare outside, her reflection smugly grinning at him.

“That’s the fourteenth time, Dai-chan,” the woman knowingly informs him.

When she pops her head back where it belongs, Daiki drops his first aid equipment back into the little white and green box, determined—it was finally time to hire someone who did not pick on him and that he could successfully boss around.

 

* * *

 

Steel olive green eyes watch him as his own eyes traverse to the bright arrangement sitting half-unfinished on the open work desk in the front of the shop. It had an oval mirror sprouting out of the middle with a little note in the sender-cum-buyer’s handwriting stating ‘ _Wanted to know what a forty-year old looks like, remember? Happy 40 th Birthday! Oh wait, you’re only 30~!! My bad! _٩(^ᴗ^)۶’. Daiki remembers laughing at the note and the customer’s idea, and Satsuki had mentioned it was in poor taste, but he did not care nor did he reject the offer. It was marginally funny and in terms of “poor taste” arrangements, this one was the most harmless he has done till date.

But it was not the arrangement that he really cared for at the moment—just as he was thinking of any other questions he could ask the potential new hire (Daiki had almost taken out his large toe with the secateurs[viii] when the man turned up, looking like the next supermodel of the male variety, beauty spot and demure aura and all. His voice, a sweet tenor if Daiki had to peg it, spoke confidently and politely, “My name is Himuro Tatsuya, I have an interview scheduled at 3 o’clock.”), the brief flash of red in the corner of his eye drew his attention away. Darting his eyes to that side, he sees the mirror image of Kagami Taiga exiting his parlour, locking the door after his client of the afternoon leaves before the two-toned redhead. The tattooist waits for a polite minute or two before he pockets his hands and walks in the opposite direction, presumably for a late lunch.

Daiki does not feel the calm and calculating stare of the interviewee, and starts again when the suave male speaks. “I heard about your job opening through him.”

Daiki jumps in his seat, startled, turns to stare at the politely charming look of Himuro Tatsuya. “Hn?”

Himuro politely nods in the redhead’s disappearing back. “Kagami Taiga,” he starts, “your neighbour. He saw the poster in your display case and informed me about it.”

Daiki does not care for politeness. He jerks his thumb behind his back first, receiving a nod to his voiceless question then, swivelling completely to face the empty street, he asks aloud: “Are you sure _he_ told you about it?”

There is silent amusement from the interviewee. “Of course, unless you know a different Kagami Taiga who also happens to own his own tattoo parlour, and who also happens to be the only tattoo artist in Azabu-jūban.”

Daiki blushes at the dig, licking his suddenly dry lips. His mouth is already feeling sticky and it does not help that the humidity in the shop is not on the right side of cool. “…You can never know…”

Another silent confirmation of the hilarity is not needed, Daiki already knows he has embarrassed himself needlessly, and it is all thanks to someone he has not—in the four months he has spent on this little street of Azabu-jūban—had a decent conversation that went beyond one sentence. Daiki can map out the redhead’s schedules; his repeat customers; his friends; due to all the moments Daiki has visually stalked the other from behind the cover of his convenient blossom-laden display case, though he cannot name one incident where they have even exchanged a measly ‘Good morning, the weather is beautiful today, isn’t it?’ greeting.

Sucking back his confidence, he looks over his shoulder at the man still staring straight at him, a light curve on his lips at Daiki’s expense, he asks, “And you…know this neighbour of mine how?”

The mirth in Himuro Tatsuya’s eyes cannot hide from Daiki’s keen stare. “Well…how should I put this?” Daiki freezes at the next set of words, “He’s my brother.”

 

* * *

 

Himuro Tatsuya—whom Daiki has learned can lie through his teeth to shake any one up, much to the dismay of his fragile ego—proves to be the wealth of knowledge when it comes to a certain Kagami Taiga. That was more because, earlier on, Tatsuya proved to be useless on the employee-side of their relationship. For some “unknown” reason, whenever Tatsuya was working the front floor, customers never seemed to leave; Daiki found himself swamped with more and more orders and requests  of the mundane quality, only to see Tatsuya standing idly, “chatting”.

On the other hand, Tetsuya was what Daiki would call him as the ghost employee—there in spirit, but never actually seen. And the few times Satsuki had dropped in to lend hands, she had been subsequently charmed by the non-charming Tetsuya (proving herself virtually useless to him), Daiki was forced to realise that he made a big mistake in depending on Tatsuya’s customer service skills to make up for the lack of Tetsuya’s customer service skills.

And the fact that Daiki would be bossing anyone in this cycle of life.

So Daiki keeps Tetsuya around for the sake of increasing his multitasking ability and keeps Tatsuya around for the helpful titbits of information the surprisingly-not-surprising stoic man is about Kagami Taiga.

He also keeps Tatsuya around for the mere fact that he got to (finally) meet face-to-face with Kagami Taiga.

 

* * *

 

It happens one sweltering afternoon when the Spring wind officially takes a hike to places unknown, and Daiki is thanking Whoever Up There Cares To Listen that his shop demands a standard room temperature otherwise the two of them would die anticlimactically. The little thermometer closest to him reads an agreeable amount and Daiki sighs pleasantly at the joy of being in-doors.

His sigh, however, is duly echoed by another with the addition of the idyllic bell Satsuki had installed (via some poor schmuck) ringing in the quiet room. Daiki blinks towards the entrance, sunlight bright at the glass door being held briefly open by a familiar ink sleeve, humid air from outside displacing the cool air from inside. The arm removes itself to let the door shut softly, and Daiki stops breathing.

“Hey,” the voice is different from what Daiki imagined. Not bad _per se_ ; the rough timbre in his tone scratches something in his chest, and he almost shivers. The tingles running from Daiki’s shoulders to his fingertips make it difficult to prune the miniature potted irises sitting on his front work desk, so he foolishly suspends his hands in mid-air.

“H-Hello,” Daiki’s voice is thick and uncomfortable and _so not him at all!_ He tries to clear his throat, gather spittle from some unknown source in his mouth to lubricate his vocal chords, and as he silently freaks out, his phantom of an employee comes to save the day.

“Ah, Kagami-kun,” Tetsuya’s seemingly disembodied voice startles not only Daiki, but Kagami Taiga jerks backwards as well. “We forgot about lunch.”

“Don’t do that, Kuroko you bastard!” The previous soft but rough voice turns out to be an aggressively harsher loud voice especially when Kagami Taiga reaches out an arm to place a large hand over a pale blue haired head, slowly squeezing. Daiki himself has never tried this stunt on Tetsuya, afraid he would burst the man’s head, but the redhead does it so easily and efficiently. Or as efficiently as a skull squeezing would go.

Then Tatsuya steps onto the platform, sharing in the little family bonding moment they are having, making it apparent that Daiki selectively heard whatever Tetsuya has been telling him all this while, and the ‘chef’ from the Hanami party a few months back was none other than the same tattooist he has been mooning over.

Not that Daiki would admit mooning over the hot piece of a—

And suddenly, Daiki feels it. The weird, unspeakable emotion choking him at that moment, watching the familiarity that the two share in his little flower shop, the cloying smell of flowers and the heady heat filling every orifice needed to facilitate breathing.

Eyes tightening around the edges, Daiki glares at the hand; he finds himself unreasonably jealous of Tetsuya of all people.

The hand moves to grab hold of slender shoulders, one-arm hugging taking place right in the middle of his oh-so-flowery shop; Daiki finds himself also unreasonably jealous of Tatsuya, too.

Jerking his sight to another spot in his shop does not save him much—Tetsuya being the ever proper man, follows on the Japanese polite culture norms. “Kagami-kun, I’m sure you know by now, but this is my boss, Aomine Daiki.” Turning to face Daiki with what could only be a frontal attack of _‘I’m giving you a chance over here! Look this side!’_ , Tetsuya continues, “And this is Kagami Taiga, your shop neighbour and my best friend from high school.”

Daiki nods. It is a failsafe that knows no other superior methods, so he relaxes when the redhead awkwardly grins back at him.

“Boss, this is the one who told me about your vacancy, remember?” Tatsuya glances over his shoulder at the redhead. “Taiga called me almost immediately from the time you stuck it in the display case.”

Kagami Taiga sputters out something along the lines of “ _I did not call immediately, you ass”_ but Daiki is just repeating it over in his head: ‘ _Taiga called me’, ‘Taiga called’, ‘Taiga’._

He calms down then, and looks; Kagami Taiga is in his usual sleeveless black top that emphasises those godly arms, one inked from shoulder joint to wrist, the other as clean as a birthday suit could be. He is dressed flashy today—with Daiki’s eye-stalking he knows the redhead covers up his ink with either plaid or gingham shirts over a version of this sleeveless top in various solid colours—though his feet comfortably sport a pair of hazelnut coloured Dr. Marten’s Douglas’ allowing soft-looking stonewashed denims to bunch at the rim of the ankle boots. Daiki stares at the leather bound feet for a few seconds before one scruffs the other in a purely abashed manner, bringing his head snapping back up to face an uncomfortable redhead.

“Aomine-kun,” Tetsuya calls out, grabbing his attention. Daiki pretends his face does not heat up as he looks away from burning red eyes. “We’ll be heading out for lunch now.”

At the door, where the redhead holds open the door for Tetsuya and Tatsuya, and Daiki wishes he could smash his head on the table, Tatsuya asks, “Would you like us to get you something?”

Daiki croaks out a “Just leave, will ya?” not seeing the concerned furrow beneath bangs of red hair.

 

* * *

 

Takao Kazunari was a riot.

Daiki stumbles upon the jewel of a man that he is sure he would not remember five seconds later, only because of _how_ he stumbles upon said man.

Kissing the daylights out of Tetsuya.

The dark haired male had Tetsuya’s lithesome body pushed up against the flower shop brick wall, under the awning he had asked his first employee to roll close, and then conveniently disappearing for a longer than usual time. Tetsuya’s wrists are firmly grasped as the anchor point for Takao who does not give Tetsuya any space or leeway to breathe in the forty seconds Daiki stands there, appalled.

‘ _My front wall, desecrated,’_ he thinks belatedly, and has no real reason to stay any longer, but manages to convince himself he is not interrupting the two.

Even when Tetsuya mumbles out through kiss-bruised lips, “You have no shame, do you?”

For once, Daiki can crow out, pleased at the rebuttal, “And you do, right? On the front of my shop, that too.”

The chuckles from the other male are loud and grating to Daiki, and as he calms down for the need to breathe, he introduces himself. “I work at Fugō over there,” he points rudely enough with a finger-gun. “Was telling Tecchan that I had to cancel dinner plans because of a double-booking.”

“Last time, Kazunari-kun,” Tetsuya warns, “Otherwise you can find someone else to plaster against the flower shop’s walls.”

Takao grins lecherously. “C’mon, Tecchan, you know you like that, you closet exhibitionist!” Tetsuya did not bat an eyelid, nor did he refute the statement, calmly walking back into the floristry. Takao salutes Daiki as he walks back to his own work place, humming a fast-paced tune under his breath, actually _skipping_ the short distance it took to cross over, shoving hands that looked too delicate to be so strong as to hold up another guy against a wall into his skinny jeans’ pockets.

Daiki shivers, promising to wash the walls thoroughly the next chance he gets.

 

* * *

 

To what Daiki perceived as Kagami Taiga’s first foray in his domain, was to thank him for the flower basket he does not remember actually sending.

(“Here, use this, and this, and I think this would be nice too,” Tetsuya says, handing him bunches of flowers that Daiki struggles to gather with delicate grips, sputtering at the almost careless speed Tetsuya is handling them with.

“What are you talking about?” He fusses with the flowers, placing them gently on his side of the work table, hoping to give Tetsuya a firm (physical) reminder how he does not like maltreatment of his colourful babies.

“Practice round for the greeting bouquet, Aomine-kun; did you forget already?” Tetsuya admires more blooms, hair colour offsetting the blues of the hydrangea perfectly.

“Oh~! Good one, Tetsu!!” And grinning, he sets off to work.)

Thinking back, Daiki cannot recall where the trial basket landed.

Before him, though, the moderately inked redhead is awkwardly glancing around the flower shop as though a bull in a china shop, and the image of a fumbling redhead was too amusing for his mind, allowing a chuckle to escape unaware lips. The redhead turns to face his direction from where Daiki enters from the back work room, and hesitates.

Clearly, he too remembered their first and failed interaction.

Daiki clears his throat in order to get the apology started and over with, but Kagami Taiga interrupts him.

“Yo—er, I mean—hello.”

The stumbling in his speech is frankly adorable and Daiki mentally chokes himself for thinking so.

“Hello.” Daiki also mentally wonders why he is being so short with Kagami Taiga; did his mind never learn from past mistakes? “What do you want?” Apparently not.

“That is,” Kagami Taiga glances over his shoulder as one would if they were listening to either the devil or angel sitting on that joint, coaching them in their conversation, “I was, ah, I’m Kagami Taiga.”

Daiki stiffly nodded, body posture presuming an unaffected pose of nonchalance that he internally did not feel. There is a brimming energy under his skin, forcing him to just act rather than react, but what he was to do, Daiki had not the faintest of clues. “I know.”

“Ah,” Kagami rubs the nape of his neck. “Right. And you did, after all, address the flower basket to me rather than using the store name.”

Daiki blinks. He did what now?

Kagami nods, more to his inner thoughts than to Daiki, who is fretting out of sight. The redhead continues advancing in Daiki’s domain, cautious body language. “I just wanted to come by and welcome you too,” mumbling under his breath something along the lines of ‘ _Not like Kuroko, Tatsuya, and Takao gave me any choice, those bastards’_ , stretching his lips in a large grimace of a smile, “Even though it’s been over a month now.”

“Dai-chan, Dai-chan.” Daiki hears a whisper from behind him, and startled into glancing over in that direction, sees Satsuki’s pink head popping around the bend of the passage leading to the cool rooms[ix]. The hand motioning him to listen to her words was second to him noticing Tetsuya’s head was popped over Satsuki’s head. Eyes bulging out comically, Daiki stared at them. “Tell him you were just settling the shop first before you sent out your greetings.”

“Wha—” He floundered.

Kagami, still standing half a meter away from the doorway, perked up at him. “Hm?”

Blushing furiously, Daiki spoke in verbatim to what Satsuki and Tetsuya had deemed was the most appropriate response to the current situation.

“Ahh, that makes sense,” Kagami nodded in agreement, not realising that Daiki was a mere puppet to the conversation. “So how do you find the area? Do you live on the top like the previous owners?”

Daiki hemmed and hawed, unable to form words, and Tetsuya gladly came to the rescue even if his facial expression did not reflect that. “Yes, I took over the apartment on the second floor. It is more convenient that way, especially since I have to wake up early in the morning to set-up the front.”

Kagami nodded, a perfect cue to continue the conversation, probably realising that Daiki was feeling chattier now than previously, since he appeared to be more comfortable in his own turf. Daiki, on the other hand, was suspiciously wondering if he was acting out a dating game: choosing the most appropriate responses as a contender to the girl he was trying to hit up. Only this was a man, a man as tall as him, and bulkier than him, and frankly, if Daiki was asked, looked less likely to be a tattoo artist than Daiki was a gentle florist.

At the moment though, Kagami was looking expectantly at him. Daiki blinked back, owlishly, wondering what it was he zoned out on. “Sorry what?”

A smack of skin hitting skin echoed behind him, and he chanced a look behind to see both Tetsuya and Satsuki slapping their forehead with their eyes closed; he scowled.

“Don’t worry about it,” Kagami broke in, that awkward quirk of a smile back on his face, waving his hands before him as he took a step backwards, “Just forget I mentioned anything at all.”

“Hah?” Daiki eloquently reacted.

The area around Kagami Taiga’s cheekbones and the tips of his ears were starting to colour, as though his hair was throwing a pleasant hue onto his skin, and he shook his head. “Yea, sorry about that, I didn’t mean to be so forward!” And with those words, Kagami Taiga did an amazing rendition of the roadrunner.

“Dai-chan,” Satsuki spoke as she and Tetsuya showed the rest of their bodies, she shaking her head in abject pity. “What to do with you?”

Even Tetsuya sighed. “Oh well.”

Daiki was slowly reaching the end of his tolerance level. “What the fuck happened?!”

“Kaga-min just asked you out for drinks and you technically stonewalled him.”

Daiki, with no though passing in his head, could only drop his jaw in shock.

 

* * *

 

Tatsuya comes back one afternoon bearing gifts like a messenger to a war-ravaged kingdom and Daiki is a stranded General with only spineless soldiers to fight the last battle: Kagami Taiga bought him lunch.

“They’re just burgers,” Tatsuya takes the time to warn him, but Daiki is tearing into the meal as though starved. If Ambrosia really existed, Daiki likens its taste and rejuvenating properties to that afternoon’s meal, and no one would be able to dissuade him from saying otherwise. Tatsuya watches over him as Daiki demolishes one of the two burgers the redhead paid for with a soft amused smile lifting his lips.

“They’re good burgers,” Daiki counters, though his words are lost in the chewing. Tatsuya lets him be, walking to the back for his apron. “Why did he buy me lunch anyway?”

Tetsuya shrugs and responds as politely as the words do not sound to Daiki, brushing his hair away from his face, “He said you looked famished and Magi burgers always brings the soul right back to you.”

Daiki blinks, astonished for reasons that are unexplainable, before deciding it is his new religion.

“Hear, hear,” he mutters, starting the second burger.

Across the street, Kagami Taiga grins wolfishly at the pure look of awe and happiness painted across dark skin.

 

* * *

 

It takes another month before Daiki gets a chance to repay the favour to his tattooist neighbour. Though they have jumped the starting steps of conversation, rounding first at the ‘ _Did you hear what the new safety policies are for shop owners? That’s ridiculous! Insurance ain’t going to buy that!’_ and then lingering along the lines of ‘ _That stupid club has finally got the quits, huh? I hate opening shop to see dead drunk idiots using my awning as a rest stop’_ to ‘ _Hey, do you want to join us for a coupl’ a drinks later?’_

Truthfully, though, it is Kagami Taiga bolstering hesitating conversations with Daiki which later swings into a full out tête-à-tête to the point where customers to their respective shops remind them that they still had work to do, leaving Daiki wondering if the invitation handed out on a whim by the redhead was still out there for the taking.

So Daiki mulls as he continues snipping at loose leaves and dried ones, trimming bushes and resoiling pots, misting flowers sitting around in vases waiting to be bought, and sweeping up plant debris collecting from his voiceless dilemma.

“You should just ask him out,” Tetsuya effectively scares the living daylights out of Daiki, making him snap the long-handles broom in two, eyes wide in surprise.

“I told you to stop doing that!” Then he realises what the short male said, so he continues snapping (for the rest of the day, unconsciously) “And I’m not asking him out!”

 

* * *

 

In less than two days, Daiki’s words come to bite him back in the ass.

Tatsuya had taken a leave of absence for a trip back to his home town all the way to Akita that week, taking away a percentage of their customers’ mundane flower arrangements, not that Daiki minded the less workload—it made Tetsuya have plenty opportunities to be more “aware” of his lacking customer skills. Daiki is book keeping by himself that evening, and Tetsuya was getting better at keeping customers occupied—if ringing a bell at the register to catch their attention was not enough, the phantom was doing what he did best, scaring Daiki’s future repeat clients, granted if any survived from the resulting heart attack. Taking small victories as they were, Daiki fails to realise that him sitting in his proverbial moping corner and twiddling his thumbs means that he loses out on his god-honest only chance to really have anything to do with Kagami Taiga.

The weather is smoothly moving towards the middle of Summer and grey skies threaten the end of many romances to which Daiki knows more how to garnish with bouquets proclaiming undying love and faithfulness, knows more how to write short poems and heartfelt messages, than the florist knows how to carry out the next sequence of said proclamations of ardour.

He is taking a break from bending over figures of sales showing he is doing passably well ‘ _for a face like Dai-chan’s_ ’, and his blood needs to circulate back into his brain or his eyeballs will pop out to plaster itself on his reading glasses, so he abandons his books to head over to his proud display case. “Have to think of the next display,” he reminds himself, eyes the wilting lavenders interspersed with the large yellow-petal sunflowers. The age-bound floral combination was eye-fetching in Satsuki’s heavily-suggested arrangement, but as the weather was starting to look stormy, the blooms would have to go soon. The roses he had been mending for the past few months would have a re-show this time before autumn flowers made themselves known, and just the thought of the colours conjure the presence of Kagami Taiga from across the street.

Daiki, as usual not noticing, flares up when their eyes meet.

The redhead was with a familiar noir fledgling of his, the smart-mouthed funnyman, whom Daiki remembers his name to be Takao Something-or-the-Other, not that anyone in the vicinity of Kagami Taiga deserved his attention (but it could have also been because he has caught Takao What-was-it-Again and Tetsuya in another snogfest or two unwittingly). It was another case of familiarity that ate at Daiki, and he was silently fuming about the sinew arm patting a muscular chest in what could have been light-hearted friendliness, but Daiki, Daiki was preparing to pull up his non-existent shirt sleeves to take Takao Whomever out in a fight.

While he processes these abysmal thoughts, Daiki’s heart stops when Takao jerks Kagami Taiga’s handsome face to his own, and from there, it seems that only the widening of the redhead’s eyes tell Daiki what has happened. Without a thought in his head, without a plan in his belt, Daiki throws open the flower shop’s door, the idyllic bell swings off and arches in the air to disappear between ramshackle shelving units, drowned out by Daiki’s thudding heart.

He almost does not know why Kagami Taiga is still staring at him in surprise, sclera of his eyes bright in the darkening skies, and it was not until a firm grip around his wrist registers to him that Daiki glances downwards. Downwards to where Takao Whomsoever was keeling over his knees, gasping. “Wow,” the lithe man choked out, “That was one mean right-hook, unjustly deserved, if I may add.”

Daiki draws back, aghast. Kagami Taiga looks over to the bent male, reaching to help him stand, and Takao Whatever releases the grip on his arm. Daiki takes his hand back to his chest, in a move he faintly recalls Satsuki doing a million and one times with other insensitive males (including him), and rears away from the duo.

Ruby eyes follow him across the street, a frown marring previously handsome features.

 

* * *

 

 “That's the posture of a victim; fix it,[x]” he is verbally assaulted with first, or as harmful as words could smack one in the face silly. Daiki is still reeling from the shock of his actions that Tetsuya’s words register a second too late for him to bring back colour to his face. “I hope you have a decent explanation as to why you just punched my boyfriend, Aomine-kun.”

“What are you talking about,” as though speaking with a mouthful of cotton, the usually harsh question peters out into a sentence that has no backbone. His own spine is curved, chin to his chest, forehead parallel to the petal-littered floor of his flower shop. “What am I talking about? What am I doing, Tetsu?”

Tetsuya stays silent; there are no words the smaller man can gather in this space and time to comfort his friend and employer, and he does not chose half-heartedly with those his mind churns up to fill the void. So he does not open his mouth.

Daiki appreciates it for what it is worth and silently, the two close shop for the night.

 

* * *

 

As though selecting the theme of a nosegay for wit and politeness, Tetsuya places the cluster of sweet alyssum[xi] near his elbow so as to not detract him from his butchering of the _Narcissus_ in the _moribana_[xii] Daiki was arranging. The bright yellow hues of the jonquils and the stark whites of the paperwhites reflected the opposite moods on Daiki’s face, the cheeriness of said flowers dampened even further by the downpour from the previous night. Foot traffic and customers were so few that Daiki was able to coach Tetsuya on flower arrangement (the shorter male had a knack for _ikebana_ surprisingly-not-surprising) and simultaneously work on the backlog of orders for the ritzy private restaurants in Roppongi[xiii].

“What is that?” Daiki asked without touching the flowers. When doing ikebana, he never touched any flower not involved in the arrangement until he was done. Knowing this, Tetsuya patiently kept it at bay. Also, glancing at the small wet cluster of lavender coloured flowers, Daiki grimaces.

“It’s from Kagami-kun.”

Daiki balks. “We don’t even have these here.”

Tetsuya brandishes the flowers again. “Of course not,” he mocks, “Kagami-kun at least has some sense than to buy flowers from a florist he is trying to woo.”

Daiki balks once more. “So he’d rather give _another_ florist profit than me?! Who is he kidding?? I don’t want that,” he elbows Tetsuya’s hand away from him. “Get that away from me.”

Tetsuya pauses as anyone but Daiki would have wont to do. Sighing laboriously, Tetsuya says, “Might I remind you he sent this to woo you, but to clear the obviously glaring point away, Kagami-kun picked these from Mother Nature.”

Daiki narrowed his gaze, thinking. “Where’s that?”

Not allowing the mood to be ruined by his dimwit of an employer, Tetsuya smacks Daiki’s head with the hand holding the nosegay, petals detaching and littering the workspace. Frowning as he clutched his head, Daiki could not get a word edgewise before Tetsuya raised his voice. “He picked it up like weeds on the roadside, Aomine-kun. He didn’t pay anyone, and he didn’t betray you profit. He sent these,” Tetsuya shoved the sweet aroma flowers into Daiki’s flabbergasted face, promptly feeding the man the edible plant, “as a message.”

Spitting the spicy flower parts out of his mouth, not letting up on glaring at Tetsuya, Daiki hedges, “What…message?”

At this, Tetsuya smiles more openly, now brandishing a plain-faced white card. “Why don’t you find out for yourself?”

Daiki remains sitting at the work desk, alone, eyeing Tetsuya for any paltering motions so he could chuck the message into a blue eyeball. Breathing in deeply, preparing himself, he flips open the card.

And scowls.

 

* * *

 

Daiki would agree that banging on a steel shutter of the shop across from his flower shop, adding to the cacophony of noises in the near storm they were having, would make it seem as though Daiki was a madman, along the same lines of intent as the flowers Kagami Taiga had sneakily sent via Tetsuya some time ago.

Frowning, Daiki rethinks the situation.

For all he knew, Kagami Taiga could have been plotting this from the very beginning, to justify calling Daiki a madman.

Or Daiki really needed to calm down and rethink what he was doing in the middle of the vacant street, during a storm, fuming mad over a little white card clutched tightly in his right fist. He is so into the ruckus, he cannot hear his name being called, nor can he tell that the caller is coming closer. It is only when he is swivelled around by the shoulder that he can finally see colour in this dull world he is encased in.

“-ing okay?”

“What?” Daiki asks again, but Kagami Taiga pushes him under the awning of the tattoo parlour, shielding the two of them from more drenching.

“Are you okay?” The redhead is now obviously looking at his body, trying to see for what Daiki does not know, until his next words make him understand; “Are you hurt somewhere? Do you need to be taken to the doctor or something?”

“Calm down, damnit!” Daiki smacks the hands roaming his body, as innocent as they were trying to see if he was hurt, they were bringing up his core temperature in a not-so-innocent way. Panting, Daiki reminded himself to calm down; nothing good happened when he was either in high spirits or reacted without direction. “I’m fine.”

“Oh,” the other drew back, confusion still on perfectly chiselled features, wet from the rain. Red and black bangs frames his face, going into his eyes, and unconsciously, Daiki reached with one hand to swipe them away. To facilitate the motion, Kagami Taiga bent lower, allowing for Daiki to successfully brush them to one side like his usual style allotted for. “Thanks.”

Daiki hummed at the back of his throat, eyes taking in how the light from the flower shop and the rain sheet in between was making a halo form around his head, and a similar aura to form around the rest of his muscular body. The man was also not wearing anything to cover his arms, felt more than seeing it by the heat under Daiki’s fingertips.

“What happened?” Kagami Taiga wanted to know, voice a bare whisper over the sound of the pit-pattering rainfall. He drew circles on the skin he was exposed to, round and round and round.

“That message,” Daiki said, “What was it?”

“Message?” Cooling molten red eyes blinked in the dark. “With the flowers you mean?”

Daiki nodded, nose brushing against the other man’s, sharing air. “Can’t read English.”

More chuckling stirs the space between them. “Ah…In a roundabout way, it was asking if you would like to go on a date with me?”

Daiki pretended to think, and Kagami Taiga let his arms drape almost possessively on his hips, pulling him close. “I don’t think I’d like to.” They were moving slowly, away from the steel shutters, further into the cold rain.

Kagami Taiga frowned. “Is that so?” The hands on Daiki’s hips tightened, cautious, because he felt them trembling.

“Hm,” Daiki agreed, swaying along with Kagami Taiga as the other was leading him somewhere he does not know. “Can’t really trust a man will be any good if he’s sending a messenger with a message for all his tasks. What age are we in, again?”

It felt suspiciously like a dance, their slow movement, and then again, Daiki might have been imagining it, but then again, he has been imagining a lot of things lately, so many it was not a dance. Just like it was not the proclamations of ardour that had him vaulting across the street, nor was it the sweet smelling flora half-eaten and half-trampled on the floor of the floral shop.

“Sorry,” the other says with cheeks—definitely and not a figment of his (sometimes wild) imagination—heated, exhalations misting visibly, “It’s a little old-fashioned of me, I’ll agree, but I thought since you were a florist and all…”

“And all…?” Daiki urged, bonking his head on Kagami Taiga’s.

“I thought you’d like some old-fashioned…wooing.”

“What the hell?” Daiki demanded, nudging the man’s face up. “If you wanna go old school, I think the good old grab and shove does it best, right?”

“’Grab and shove’?” Confused, he drew away from Daiki.

Grinning, he drawled out, “You know, grab hair, shove in tongue?”

And taking the advice for what it was worth, Kagami Taiga did just that.

 

* * *

 

**Omake:**

Tetsuya peered through the window.

“I didn’t expect that to happen, to be honest.”

Kazunari scoffed, seated on the desk surface, swinging his legs, Tetsuya held firmly in between his knees. “ _What_ did you expect?” He nuzzles Tetsuya’s neck, eliciting a sound that he normally does not get, so grinning, he starts his attack.

“The shop’s not closed yet, Kazunari-kun,” Tetsuya breathes out, airily, finding it difficult to keep himself upright.

“So?” Kazunari nibbles a trail from the junction of the small male’s neck to his earlobe, kneading the flesh with his teeth. “Use Overflow, no one will see us.”

Tetsuya jabs him in the side.

“That wasn’t what I spent all my time in Club perfecting it for.”

“Well, what use is it now, not being used in such a prime opportunity?!”

“Kazunari-kun…” Tetsuya sighs disappointedly. “What to do with you…”

 

* * *

 

**Omake 2 (What is an omake without another omake?):**

When Daiki started shivering in his hold, Taiga decided it was best for them to go indoors at this point, so reluctantly, he withdraws from the steamy make-out session the two had jumped into. It was also at this point that Daiki remembered he had not closed up shop, and knowing Tetsuya, the man would have left it open just to spite Daiki for one-upping Takao Whomsoever the other time, for which Daiki had yet to apologise for.

And Tetsuya had been lurking for the prime opportunity to deliver some much needed punishment, or so Daiki thought.

As it were, the newly formed couple made their way to the flower shop, Daiki glowering at the lights left on, and Taiga pacifying him with poorly hidden laughter in remembrance of that day (Takao had something in his eye and was demanding Taiga get rid of it before he went blind and could not see Tetsuya anymore), when Daiki stops dead in his tracks, letting out a shrill and inhuman scream.

“What, what is it?!” Taiga comes, guns blazing, to defend his new boyfriend. The title tickles him in the chest, and a little in his gut, making him a bit warm and fuzzy.

“Th-That’s…no…why would you, T-Tetsu…?”  Daiki stammers, mouth agape.

Taiga peers around Daiki’s head, eyes going equally wide.

“Tecchan…you’re getting pretty rusty with that Overflow of yours,” Kazunari states, struggling to find his footing on the floor amongst the clothes left in a heap just below him. “We used to get away with this in college.”

“Well I’m sorry if you think I can do the same thing I was able to do five years ago,” Tetsuya almost gripes, taking the clothes his lover was handing back to him, struggling to get back into his clothes.

“Well…you are still capable of doing that—”

“And do you guys _not_ _realise_ that you have an audience?!” Daiki wanted to know, his voice carrying.

Both undressed dressing males paused, looked over at him and shrugged. “Not like you haven’t seen our package before.”

“Aomine-kun,” Tetsuya gravely pointed out, “stop being such a prude. Sooner or later you’ll be doing the same thing with Kagami-kun over there. At least now you won’t need to ask how it goes between two men right?”

“KUROKO, YOU BASTARD!” “T-TETSU!!” “Nice one, Tecchan!”

“What?” Tetsuya almost whined. “It’s better than going to Himuro-san for dating advice, right Kagami-kun? At least I show visuals.”

Daiki gaped, snapping his head to face Taiga who had his head in his palms. “You did what?”

“…”

“Tatsuya, that fucker…” Daiki swore, “I’m going to kill him.”

 

* * *

 

 

**Omake 3** : _Somewhere in Akita…_

Tatsuya gasped, struggling to pull away from his greedy lover. “Slow down!”

“ _Yada_[xiv],” came the childish response.

“C’mon now,” Tatsuya wheedled, “I just had a feeling that someone wanted to kill me!”

“Ah, don’t worry Muro-chin,” lathering more open-mouthed kisses that resembled messy eating than actual intimate caressing, “I’ll crush them.”

Tatsuya allowed himself to be manhandled. “Ah, there’s also that.”

“Good, now shut up.”

 

* * *

 

**Translations and Extra Notes:**

 

[i] **Fugō** : [符号] meaning ‘Sign, mark, symbol, code’.

[ii] **Kigō** : [記号] meaning ‘Symbol, code, sign’.

[iii] **Hanami** : Flower blossom viewing. I think everyone knows this more than I can sit here and write out a whole description of it.

[iv] **Sakuramochi** : Unlike other mochi sweets, this baked rice cake is wrapped in a pickled cherry blossom (sakura) leaf. The mochi is eaten with the leaf so you get both the sweet and sour taste the dessert has to offer. There are two types, Kanto style and Kansai style. :D

[v] **Mauvelous** : a Crayola colour to depict the Lavender pink shade. I checked according to the crayon a little child handed me the other day on the train as she used me as her crayon holder during the ride. At first I was annoyed (I don’t like kids much), but as the crayons were added on, I realised there were so many colours I did not know existed!! O__o

[vi] **Yoshi, Yoshi** (pronounced ‘yosh, yosh’): In this particular incident, it means, ‘good, good’ like one would do a small child or dog. :P

[vii] **Azabu-jūban backstreets** : I’ve not been to many places, but the backstreets [or whatever you may call the smaller streets away from the main junction roads and such] in Azabu-jūban look suspiciously like those of Europe (for example: Barcelona, Spain; Dusseldorf and Frankfurt, Germany). They’re really nice (and easy to get lost in) when not much foot-traffic is present, otherwise cramped and scary since it’s easy to “by mistake” end up in Roppongi in the late evenings. =___= I've also chosen such a street for obvious reasons (if Kagami being a tattoo artist was not enough for the Japanese people to stay the hell away from it, thinking he has Yakuza dealing...)

[viii] **Secateurs** : Pruning shears/hand pruners; whatever you may call it in your country. My handy-dandy floristry provided me with what they called it in their Horticulture/Floriculture school, and subsequently in their shop.

[ix] **Cool rooms** : Cold storage areas for keeping plants/flowers fresh either before or after arranging; for preserving cuttings to re/grow later; and various other floristry-uses. Depending on their use, their temperatures can vary.

[x] **‘Posture of a victim; fix it’** : I heard this in some British TV serial or the other, but for the life of me, cannot recall which one it is. Note how I say “heard”—if only I remember seeing what was happening on TV, I would be able to tell which show it was from. But it was damn funny.

[xi] **Sweet alyssum** : other “common” names for this flower are “madwort” and “healbite”. Apparently, _AGES_ ago, they used this to treat rabies and the actual meaning of the name itself was “not enraged” or “without madness”. Before, the flower was used to ask for forgiveness, though now it signifies to be calm or less angry or something. I thought it was equally funny to use it here, but whatever. Don’t mind me. (In one costal restaurant in Madrid, there was a fish salad that had the flower. I was expecting it to be as sweet as it smelt, but it was spicy! Okay, more like kale-tasting.)

[xii] **Moribana** : ikebana arrangement in a low, shallow container with a wide opening.

[xiv] **Yada** : Slang of a slang “ _iyada_ ” meaning ‘hate’ and used more to say ‘no’ vehemently.

 

* * *

 

**Author’s End Ramblings:** The whole time I was writing this, I was internally crying over how badly this was going.

Now that it’s finally over, come at me with your comments! (I’m a little worried, so if possible, please be kind D:) (Or not.)


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